Breaking Point
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: "The match can continue, and we don't have to be friends." No, you're right. We really don't. In which Freddie shows up at exactly the wrong moment and Florence reaches her breaking point. Explicit Florence/Anatoly. Oneshot.


"The match can continue, and _we _don't have to be friends."

He's talking to Anatoly but he's looking at her, scathing and betrayed, and even though her first indignant thought is that he has no right to be offended that she's having a good time - she's not his property, and they've had this talk before - Florence _does_ feel a flash of irrational guilt for the lingering heat of Anatoly's hand on hers.

So, Freddie hadn't taken it well.

She's not really sure that she expected him to, but now that he's storming away, now that the words he'd spat in her face are ringing in her ears - she wants another glass of wine.

And you know? She wants a lot of things, and she never fucking gets them.

She's sick of it.

Anatoly is quiet while she watches him descend the mountain from the hotel window. It occurs to her now that it was unnecessary to get a furnished room for their meeting here - a bed, a bathroom? They could just have used a conference room, but why does it matter, anyways? She doesn't _really _care, and besides, it makes such a nice opportunity.

Oh, Freddie is going to hate her.

If he doesn't already…

Florence holds out her empty glass and manages a tight smile when the Russian grants her a sympathetic look, dark eyes melting gentle against her face as he pours her a tall glass of maroon forgetfulness.

His gaze is so soft, so unlike the broken-glass minefield of Freddie Trumper's entire existence.

It's so stupid, she thinks, but it just… feels like he understands.

They share a moment of quiet empathy and sip at their glasses together, watching Freddie's white t-shirt disappear down a dirt path and into the trees, and it's not nearly as awkward as it should be.

Suddenly, though, she misses their reckless laughter. Their flirtatious touches, the way she'd batted her eyes and felt for a moment like she was seventeen again and kissing that shy, bespectacled boy in her calculus class that had gotten accepted into Harvard and flown off that summer, leaving her with some strange ache of loneliness and warm nostalgia that she'd never felt before.

She wants a lot of things.

"Perhaps you should go," comes a low, reluctant chuckle, and Florence finds her eyes drawn again to her Russian companion. His accent is thick and she wants to drown in it, wants to just stay here - to never have to go back to that hotel in the town where Freddie will be stewing, honing the blades of his angry words.

Anatoly's eyes are warm brown, like the earth in the sun, and there are no sharp edges of paranoia for her to cut herself on, and it's such a _nice _change.

"I'd rather not." She closes her eyes and breathes it like a sigh, but it sounds incredibly exasperated. She feels his smile in the air like a kiss against her cheek and there is a surge of pleasure, straight to her core, hot and _wanting _in the nicest way -

She feels her lips curving into a genuine smile, sees the pleased way that Anatoly returns it, shifts just slightly closer to her - is she imagining things? She can't be.

It's just like it had been before Freddie showed up, laughing and joking and circling each other, flitting about, waiting for someone to crack.

God, Freddie really is going to hate her.

Does she care, though? Should she?

Freddie Trumper doesn't deserve her.

The thought pierces the flustered haze she'd gotten herself into, and she's reminded of why she doesn't drink when the heat courses again downward, her thigh muscles tightening in delicious anticipation, and some carnal part of her is delighted when her hand rests against Anatoly's chest and he doesn't step back, just looks down at her owlishly.

There's something burning between them and Florence, she just wants to do something for herself, for _once _in her goddamn life.

"We could procrastinate a bit longer," she suggests, and that smile is playing at her lips again, devious now. "I'm sure we won't be missed."

Butterflies erupt giddy in her chest for a fraction of a second before Anatoly's hands surge up to cup her neck, her jaw, his lips crushing against hers like she's all he's been missing, like he's desperate for her and just her, her, this -

She thinks of Freddie, vindictively, and winds her arms around the Russians' neck to pull him down, opening her mouth with a delicate groan. He tastes like rich wine and heady freedom, which spells nothing but trouble and hangovers in the morning-

"Oh," Anatoly groans into her mouth, and she's got her fingers twisted in his hair, she's turned him forcefully to back him towards the bed.

She doesn't care. She's _doing this. _She's already committed to it.

They don't really need to exchange words for this, and Florence is vaguely amused as they fall back together, clothes flying off in a near-violent flurry of motion - she's never had casual sex before and now she's the one initiating it, taking Anatoly's cock firm in her hand and straddling his thigh, rocking down wet against it while she breathes and pumps and soaks in every rapid breath and beautiful, uneven gasp.

He _is _beautiful, God, she's spent so much time with someone who couldn't even look her in the eye while she touched him and now this man is grabbing desperately at her hips, pulling her against him.

As much as they fumble, they aren't teenagers - they're just in a hurry to feel good and forget, both of them. He has a wife, she remembers, and kids, two of them, girls, somewhere miles and miles away from here, and that she _will _feel terrible about in the morning.

"Oh-" A gasp, it falls low and frantic from her wet and parted lips as his thumb rubs eagerly around her clit, her legs slipping further apart.

Fuck it. She wants this. Him.

Tonight she's being selfish.

There are so many things she wants to do, and all at once, and the way he's looking at her from where he's propped against the headboard panting and jerking, shallowly and not entirely of his own volition, up into her hand…

"Please," she breathes, and she's never felt so vulnerable in her life.

He nods, and his fingers tighten; and the next thing she knows she's being rolled over and forced into the mattress, her body arching up bare against his, a moan torn from her throat as his head descends between her legs.

"Yes - _God, _yes, yes -!"

His hair is knotted around her fingers, his face is buried between her trembling thighs and no one has ever _done _this for her before, Freddie has never done this for her before, and his tongue is flick-flick-flicking over that oversensitive nub and she grasps for the sheets, fingers scrabbling on the silky fabric, crying out shrilly as her heels dig into his back and she comes, she _comes _with her whole body seizing and her throat working, choking out some senseless stream of pleasure, her legs tight around him-

And he's licking his lips and looking up at her with such raw desire, lips swollen and shiny and sticky and hair a mess…

She practically yanks him up atop of her, nails biting into his shoulders.

"Fuck me," she pants, begs, _demands_, legs already wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, encourage him. "_Fuck_ me."

He doesn't need encouragement. He's hard and throbbing and _dripping _against her thigh, eagerly pressing into her, their hearts hammering in the hot swirl of their racing breaths between them.

He throws his head back as he sinks into her, face twisting in unbearable pleasure, as though he's trying to hold himself back, trying to be easy about it. Florence isn't having it. She arches her back and pulls him down into her, insistent, muscles clamping around him, so _tight, _so _full_, more more more-

She needs it harder and faster and _more _and Anatoly can do nothing but gasp and pant and try to keep up, slamming down into her as fast as he can, trying to match her, trying to help her.

They're so close, building. Freddie's name has temporarily been lost in her memory bank.

"Da!" Anatoly whimpers, slipping into his native tongue, so close so close- "Da, _oh, Lord-"_

"Fuck," she breathes or maybe screams, she can't really tell because her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut and it's like fucking _lightning, _and she feels Anatoly jerk and gasp and lose the battle, pounding into her short and hard and desperate as he spills, comes, collapses against her with his face against her neck, his breath against her straining nipples.

Still catching her breath, Florence reaches down to brush her fingertips against them, shivering at the stimulation, and Anatoly smirks and flicks his tongue out to follow their path.

She smacks him lightly, snorting despite herself.

The room is abruptly quiet, the moist heat lingering in the air. They still don't need the words. It's been a refreshing change of pace…

"Mmph," Anatoly groans as she tugs at a stray curl, and she feels a wicked grin rising on her lips.

Florence thinks that she could get used to this.


End file.
